


Tempestas (Part of the LET IT SNOW 'Verse by Kreweofimp)

by BellaRisa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Because of Reasons, Bottom Dean, Brat Dean, Brat Sam Winchester, Bunker Sex, Castiel/Dean Winchester in the Bunker, Come Swallowing, Dom Castiel, Dom/sub, Feathers & Featherplay, Forced Orgasm, Gin Blossoms, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Non-Consensual Spanking, Non-Consensual Tickling, Oral Sex, Sibling Rivalry, Spanking, Sub Dean, Tickle torture, Tickling, Ticklish Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-22 03:49:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11959095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaRisa/pseuds/BellaRisa
Summary: “Whatever is the matter, Dean? Scared?”Before he can catch himself his bottom lip is between his teeth. Dead giveaway dammit. The angel grins, and to call it sinister would not need correcting.“Good. You should be.”His back finally against the chilled wall. A hand on one side of him as the other unsnaps his jeans, Cas crowds him against the cold cement and he comes in with those ridiculously luscious lips and brushes them against Dean’s jaw; waves of ticklish longing run all through him, it’s dizzying and distracting...





	Tempestas (Part of the LET IT SNOW 'Verse by Kreweofimp)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KreweOfImp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KreweOfImp/gifts).



> In the Long Long Ago, March or April maybe...I told my beloved Kreweofimp that I wanted to write her a birthday fic before her June birthday. Now because I'm constantly spinning too many plates in the air with the whole wife/mom/business owner gig, plus a few lovely medical issues just for Fail Spice, this story has had my heart and soul for month after month but didn't get done 'til now. Krewe gave me a *wonderful* prompt, asking me to write for one of HER amazing 'verses. I hungrily chose the Let it Snow 'Verse purely because that Cas is Heaven for a brat like me, and I identify with that Brat!Dean far more than I probably should (IT US!). In any case, my wonderful Krewe has Seen Some Shyte over the past year and the least I could do is give her my very best. I tried baby girl, I hope you love it 'cause I love you and you deserve it :)

_Message for the faint of heart: this is a Tale of Woe._

_Of mischief and misbehavior and ruthlessly relentess torment of a Brat in Need._

_There's love and affection, and perhaps (gasp!) even a happy ending...but SO MUCH WOE._

_Proceed at your own risk. You've been warned._

 

The sofa is well worn, with just the proper balance of firmness and give.

The tea, though sadly the actual taste eludes him and leaves only molecularity in its stead, is warm and soothing and goes well with his choice of reading material. David Sedaris pairs well with a steaming cup on a chilly bunker afternoon.

As much as the angel adores his Winchesters…and he does, especially that cocky elder one with the temper and all the freckles scattered about--

 (and in the most  _intriguing_ places if one has the time and permission to explore)

\--it’s undeniably pleasant to have them away for a day or two. Silence can indeed be golden.

Oh he misses them, absolutely. It’s been forty-eight hours without their color and light filling this adopted home. While he’s been in constant contact to help guide them in finding and destroying the nasty little nest of ghouls they’d gone after a few states away, it’s by no means the same as having them home. And it is, indeed, home. On that they all agree these days. And home is becoming too silent, the bed too empty. He’s looking forward to their return, for all sorts of…reasons. Some of those reasons, more delicious than others, will carry into the small hours of the morning he’s fairly certain. He’s definitely missed those freckles and their delightfully sensitive locations.

Still, for now the peace is as enjoyable as it is rare. It should be several hours more before their return, time to read and to further enjoy the stillness and--

\--and of course he should have known better. There was no way such quiet was going to last. The SLAM and the BANG and the clomping of boots promptly put an end to such grandiose visions:

“Bite me dude, not my fault you lost all your cows!”

Oh good Father, not this again.

Sighing, the angel closes his book with indulgent resignation and sets it down next to his tea cup; observes the brothers descending the steps and marching right past him, too involved in this addition of their ongoing squabble to notice him. Fair enough; this promises to be amusing, provided it doesn’t escalate. Truthfully, from past experience he knows it’ll be amusing if it *does* escalate…to a point…

It’s one of their many ongoing Sibling Battles, during downtime when there’s nothing more pressing on which to focus: driving home from hunts, or honestly anytime they drive through farmland which is remarkably often, they Count Cows. The rules are simple, the one with more cows on their side by the time they get home ‘wins’ and the loser pays a minor penalty; anything from laundry duty to this week’s grocery runs to something more, well, interesting and unique to their lives; say, refilling umpteen bottles of holy water (fine, fair enough) or scraping undead remnants off various weapons (necessary but  _foul_ , blugh). They’ve been playing the game forever; truth be told they both find it comforting. It’s a sign that they can relax, that they’ve earned the luxury of indulging in something so silly. It’s nearly mindless by now, and most days the loser simply acknowledges their extra chore with an ambivalent shrug.

This is not one of those days.

“YOU DROVE BY THAT GODDAMN CEMETERY ON PURPOSE,YOU’RE A FREAKIN’ CHEATER AND I AM SO NOT MAKIN’ YOUR STUPID BED FOR A WEEK WHO THE FUCK BESIDES A LOSER NERD LIKE YOU EVEN BOTHERS MAKIN’ HIS BED EVERY DAMN DAY WHEN NO ONE’S GONNA SEE IT!?!”

Dean Winchester, ladies and gentlemen. Sleep-deprived and mildly encrusted with blood and sweat and Heaven-only-knows, and obviously in  _no mood_. This will not end well. Entertainingly perhaps, but not well.

(Though that may depend on your definition of ‘well’)

He throws himself onto a chair to yank off his boots. His angel simply observes, with hooded eyes. And a pretty good notion of where this will lead.

Good. He’s missed that naughty flesh.

 “Hey man,”, drawls Sam from his own chair, rather cheerfully for one befouled with—whatever those bits of glistening slime once were, “I didn’t tell the state to start construction on our regular road and I damn sure didn’t make the rules; YOU taught me a long friggin’ time ago: if we go past a cemetery we’ve never been to before then whoever’s on that side loses all their cows. You owe me a chore and you  _know_  it so stop bitchin’.” Sam, equally dirty yet definitely less cranky, leans back in his chair and watches his brother with a crowing smirk that anyone observing knows will lead to, well, unpleasantness from Dean.

Castiel, deciding he’s done with being ignored, sweeps a glance of affectionate, almost parental snark from one to the other.

“And hello to both of you. Don’t mind me, I simply live here with you and help to keep you alive on occasion.”

At that both brothers turn their attention to their angel, Sam nodding his greeting with a smile while Dean has the grace (and sense of self-preservation) to cross over to the sofa and plunk down next to his—boyfriend? Celestial Other? whatever—for a kiss. He leans into the angel’s side; a whisper of “missed you” could be heard should one be inclined to listen.

And immediately continues to < _pout_ > brood in his brother’s general direction.

“He’s bein’ a total wad. Cas, he totally went by that place on purpose—!!“

“The Hell I did! he’s just mad because he—“ at that Dean jerks up and sits stiffly, eyes wider and suddenly on alert.

Interesting.

“Shutcher friggin’ hole Sammy I swear to Goummph--!!!”  A warm, soft but undeniably firm hand covers Dean’s mouth. Cas wants to hear this.

“…because he ‘what’, Sam?” Dean struggles, in absolute vain, until a sharp poke to his ribs and

_“ **Behave”**_

rumbles through his mind. And other regions. Cas never moved his lips and Sam seems like he didn’t hear anything. That was just for Dean; as cranky as he is, his lower belly and parts further south are fully aware of that fact. Home again home again oh yes indeed…

Meanwhile:

“He got a ticket! Hell, that’s why *I* was drivin’!”

“…pardon me?” Castiel is, to understate things, stunned.

Dean doesn’t get tickets. Those are for mere mortals. He’s one of the best drivers any world has ever seen, he has to be to keep himself and his loved ones alive, and his skills at outrunning a police car are legendary amongst hunters; unless there are odd (demon cop) circumstances Dean Winchester does NOT get tickets.

No wonder he’s so very, very vexed. And his brother is so very, very smug.

“This idiot was too damn tired to drive and ran a stop sign.” Dean sputters behind the hand holding him silent, clearly outraged and ready to defend his good name (and call his little brother names anything but ‘good’, thankyouverymuch).

Castiel removes the aforementioned hand, his curiosity beyond piqued and wanting very much to hear what Dean has to say about this. Dean glares at his brother while wasting no time launching into his defense.

“There was no one around for *miles*, Cas; I just pulled a California Stop, I slowed down and that was fine I swear to god; we coulda been home an hour ago but OHHH NOOO, this ASSHOLE cop came outta nowhere and—and—“

“—and stopped us at the next red light so Andretti here couldn’t gun it and outrun him like he sooo wanted to!”

If you know Dean at all you know it’s true; had there been no traffic light, and other drivers who might be hurt, Dean would have surely buried the gas peddle and practically flown them out of range. As it was…

“Officer Friendly ran the fake driver’s license and it actually went through and now ‘Jack Tripper’ here can pay it or show up in court. Maybe Larry or Mr. Furley will spot him the cash…” Sam is practically in tears laughing, and while Cas doesn’t truly know those names he gleans enough to find the humor.

Dean does not find the humor. Dean wants to beat something to death with a hammer.

He doesn’t have a hammer. He does have a David Sedaris book next to him.

What happens next surprises no one. Not really.

Sam slowly uncovers his head, bewildered. The paperback he could have sworn was hurtling toward his face never—it didn’t—

Yep. A lovely blue copy of  _“Me Talk Pretty One Day_ ” is hovering in mid-air.

Castiel, with a calm and thoughtful expression, is rolling up his right sleeve.

That is what is called a clue. A harbinger even. Definitely an instance of impending WOE to which each Winchester has his own reaction.

Dean attempts to bolt from the sofa. An act for which no one in the room can honestly blame him.

(The lightning-fast hand that latches onto the back of his flannel is completely expected and almost, not quite but _almost_ , comforting. Because reasons.)

Sam, in less of a hurry, does a marveling 360 around the hovering book and is tempted to mutter “fascinating!” before heading off to have a much needed shower. It’ll feel amazing and (hopefully) drown out his brother’s…responses…to how he’s fairly sure Cas will address matters at hand.

Heh. Hand.

Whistling “I Fought the Law” Sam takes himself away before his brother can cause him serious hurt, Cas or no Cas he knows he’s worn out his welcome in this part of the Bunker for awhile.

 

Once Sam is out of the room Dean turns toward the angel as much as he can, offense over defense in mind:

“Geez I wasn’t gonna hurt him with that little-ass book, Cas, you didn’t need to—“ Dean’s shirt is suddenly free, surprising him to silence.  

“Bring me my book, please. Little ass and all.”

Huh? Um, ok…up from the sofa he plucks the book from its float and—

OH NO THANK YOU NUH-UH

Holding the book behind him Dean’s backing up, away from rising angels with determined frosty-blue eyes. “Cas seriously I know I know but—“

And he’s up and he’s stalking. Because _prey._

Closer and closer, herding Dean where he wants him; soon there’ll be only wall and Cas and nothing in between and Dean wills himself not to fucking tremble.

He fails. Miserably. And let’s not pretend it’s all fear.

“You drove past a stop sign without stopping and received a ticket because you were counting cows, then came home mid-tantrum and attempted to strike your brother with my book.”

 “It’s not like that! I’m tellin’ you I didn’t  _need_ to stop, all I had to do was slow down and make sure and I DID slow down, there was nothin’ coming for miles and that cop didn’t need to be such a  _dick_ and SAM didn’t need to be such a blabbermouth dick goddammit--!!”

 He knows he’s whining, he wishes he could keep the wobble out of his voice but when Cas is this imposing it’s friggin’ impossible. For all the righteous indignation in his head, his words are coming out as pure petulance and that never, ever, goes over well with his angel…

“You drove past a stop sign without stopping and received a ticket because you were counting cows, then came home mid-tantrum and attempted to strike your brother with my book.”

“N-now Cas, seriously you  _know_ I’m a kick-ass driver…the damn book didn’t even hit him for cryin’ out loud _AHH!!!”_  He jumps as somewhere close a light bulb POPS and the sound that puffles out of him is *not* a squeak; he’s a grown man of course it isn’t. The low chuckle does nothing for Dean’s fractured nerves and the angel keeps closing in, his grin getting wider his eyes darker  _oh_

“Whatever is the matter, Dean? Scared?”

Before he can catch himself his bottom lip is between his teeth. Dead giveaway dammit. The angel grins, and to call it  _sinister_ would not need correcting.

“Good. You should be.”

His back finally against the chilled wall. A hand on one side of him as the other unsnaps his jeans, Cas crowds him against the cold cement and he comes in with those ridiculously luscious lips and brushes them against Dean’s jaw; waves of ticklish longing run all through him, it’s dizzying and distracting and--

\--and running a hand down his arm, Cas grabs the book and his elbow and pulls him away from the wall and into the main room with a quickness that makes his already fuzzy head spin and before he knows it they’re right back at the sofa and Cas doesn’t even sit down; he just leans against the arm with one leg bent and one on the floor--! He barely takes the time to yank down Dean’s jeans and boxers before sliding him into that oh so familiar position; Cas has Dean’s legs between his own strong thighs and gets right to it, smacks coming in  _very_  rapid succession and he’s not even starting with a warmup AW OWTCH OH

**SMACK**

**WHACK**

**SMACK**

**WHACK**

**CRACK**

**SMACK**

**SWACK**

**WHACK**

**THWACK**

**CRACK**

**SMACK**

**SWACK**

**WHACK**

If you’d ever suggested to Dean that a simple paperback book could cause this level of throbbing and smarting ache in his hindquarters…actually he would have believed you. Because Cas. Sigh. 

 

"...would you like me to stop now?”

 

Wait whut?

 

“…y-yessir?”  _It can’t be this easy it just can’t what am I missing what’s he doing it's a trap a trap UGH_

“Certainly.”

 

**C-R-A-C-K**

**S-M-A-C-K**

**C-R-A-C-K**

**S-M-A-C-K**

**W-H-A-P**

**_“OWOWTCH WAIT CAAASSS OWWW YOU SAID--WHYYY—!!!!!“_ **

\--and it slams into him like a homerun before Cas even replies. Oh for fuck’s SAKE

 

"Is there a problem? I slowed down. According to you is that not the same thing?”

 

 “ _C’mon Cas_  that’s—you know that’s not—OW OW OWAUGH!!!!”

 

And now the backs of his thighs are singing from the slow, hideously deliberate swats, each seeming to linger Just. Long. Enough. for flames to lick and play before the next smack relights the fire. On and on it goes until he can’t—it’s just too—

 

"Now then. D’you want me to  _slow down_ , or  _stop_?”

 

If he actually says what he wants the angel to do right now, especially how far he’d like that book shoved up---yeah, it’s better for both parties that Cas isn’t using his ability to read his hunter’s mind right now…

 “ _OkayokayOKAY_ , point TAKEN I get it seriously Sir PLEASE STOP FOR REALS--!!!”

An exaggerated, somehow affectionate sigh from above; so dramatic he’d snicker if his ass and legs weren’t absolutely smoking.

 “Very well, since apparently slowing down and stopping are indeed different actions…”

Upright, mostly; Cas holds him close for a moment, both to steady him and simply because he wants to. His beautiful, irascible hunter is obviously overtired and in need of rest as much as a firm hand. A very firm hand indeed rubs the deeply peach-toned backside and thighs, while another gives the back of his head the same tender treatment.

"I missed you, ornery nonsense and all." Dean lets himself sink even further into his angel, feeling at least some of his bone-deep exhaustion slipping away.  

“Your brother should done by now. You will go and shower. You will don comfortable apparel to sleep in. You will get into bed and stay there until I come for you.”

Some would say the demon he once was never left, not completely. What else could be the reason for his next foolish utterance:

“But we just got back, what if I don’t wannaaAAHHNOFINEFINE!!!” The deeply growled chuckle accompanies a flurry of swats that have him dancing in place, held tight to Cas by the arm securely ‘round his back. After more than he’d care to count (and yes he’s grateful he wasn’t ordered to) and a sufficient amount of wet turning his eyes a misty jade,

“…I’m sorry, what were you saying?” Loved and defeated, he leans his forehead into his angel’s and sighs.

“Just asking if I can read for awhile before I crash, Sir.” He feels Cas smile.

“Of course you can, for a time. I’ll check on you later.”  _And you’d better be where you belong_ is unspoken but perfectly implied. Fine. He’s funky and *wiped* and properly roasted and ready to chill anyways.

He’s also Dean. You know where this is going.

 

 _S_ o _. Much. WOE..._

 

The shower IS amazing. He feels better, much better, the lingering knots and kinks washing away with the grime of the day’s shenanigans. He has absolutely no reason to still be…to still feel so…

He’s not pouting. He’s a grown man, A monster hunter and performer of derring-fucking-do. Such Manly Men don’t pout. They damn sure don’t pout covered in bubbles.

Ok fine, and they probably don’t use up all but the last drops of their brother’s fancy high falutin’ hair nonsense just to vex him. Screw ‘im, he’s welcome to use Dean’s; let him smell like a dude for once instead of…whatever the fuck this is, even the bottle is Girly Sam Bullshit

(and it smells amazing, like rainicorns flew it in special from the fucking Shire. He’ll die,  _again_ , before ever admitting to this)

and he seriously can’t wait ‘til Samhole smells it on him (heh) and then later realizes it’s almost gone and he has to smell like…wait for it…a MAN for at least a day before he can get to…fuck if Dean knows, wherever pain-in-the-ass-wannabe-Sampsons shop.

He feels a smidge better. It’s still not enough. He’s…dammit he’s grouchy, no better word for it.

He’s grouchy toweling off. Stupid Sam and his goddamn cows--!!

He’s grouchy getting into a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt. Assy angels tellin’ Fierce Killer Grown Men what to do…!!!

He’d mutiny ( _suuure he would_ ) if he wasn’t so goddamned tired…ugh so maybe Cas is right and he needs to friggin’ sleep.

Doesn’t mean he has to like it. Being reasonable can be damn near impossible when you’re crabby and sent to bed in your late thirties. The injustice of it all is damn near choking him, in spite of nice clean ‘jama pants and (coconut-basil? Lemon and the fucking forest? Who the hell knows) Sam-scented body crap.

Clearly more petty revenge is needed.  

Nah, he’s an adult. He’s been thinking that for the last hour for cryin’ out loud, the last thing he needs is to mess with Sam even more and get himself into shit with his angel in the process. He’ll go crash like he’s supposed to and smack his brother upside the head later on, that’ll be the end of it…

Yeah. Right.

Later, ruby-assed and sniffling like a lost five-year old, Dean won’t be able to recall the precise moment he realized he was in Sam’s room. It just…happened. One minute he was on his way to Good Behavior, the next he was contemplating the current whereabouts of the younger Winchester, and listening *hard* for his Paul Bunyan steps in the hall. While rubbing his still-mildly tender hindquarters all over his brother’s pillows. Y’know, as all Grown Men do.

The unspeakable act committed with Sam’s toothbrush is better left, well, unspoken. To protect the weak-bellied.

Dean Winchester is the King of Stealth when he needs to be. In and out in seconds was the plan. But this, well this is a Tale of Woe. And Tales of Woe never end with “…and everything worked out fine!” now do they?

He’s done. Still no sign of the Overgrown Annoyance known as Sam, and no way for him to know about his current utterly, gleefully defiled belongings. All Dean has to do is slither to his own room and lay his overtired self down for a spell and the Universe will play out as it should. He grabs a random CD from a small (dusty) collection on a shelf by the desk, just in case he needs a cover story, before slinking over to the door not unlike a villain in an old cartoon; he sloowwllly pulls it open and dares to peer out. No one in front of him, thank fuck.

No one to the left.

No one to the right.

Good. He smirks as only a Winchester can as he starts his creep to the left

\--and the angel standing there enjoys both the ensuing not-even-remotely-masculine yelp and grasping the fist that automatically flies toward his face. The fist he uses to spin and propel his stumbling delinquent right back into Sam’s room. Leaning against the doorjamb Cas watches with naked, dangerous amusement as Dean regains his balance and tries to right himself with at least some semblance of dignity.

He fails. But he does try.

Meanwhile the mild yet malevolent question:

“…and just what, may I ask, were you doing in here?” 

\--and the chance to be Good and Honest and perhaps avoid further WOE. The chance that they both know will be utterly squandered. Because Dean.

“You didn’t have to creep on me dammit! All I wanted was to borrow a CD, you didn’t say I couldn’t listen to music!” He waves the case at Cas, the attempt at righteous indignation one of many failures this day. The cerulean eyes narrow a bit, unblinking and not unlike a scanner thoroughly running a program for bugs.

“Show me the CD again, if you will.” Um, okay…Dean holds it up, wondering just how this will contribute to his demise. Which he knows is inevitable. _It’s the game, not the win, that keeps his senses so alive_

“The Gin Blossoms. I assume this is a musical group that you enjoy?”

Later he’ll be proud of himself. Despite fierce and immediate revulsion

_< THE GIN BLOSSOMS?!?  Geezus fuck Sam you corny bastard>_

Only the barest twitch of his eye threatens to spoil the Winchester Poker Face.

“Oh yeah, I love these guys! Sam won’t care that I have this so I’ll just—“

“Sing them.”

_Do whut now_

“’S’cuse me…?”

“You are a fan, yes? Then sing them. Surely you know their lyrics quite well.”

“Yeah Dean, surely you know their lyrics quite well!”

Because what this situation needed, of course, is Sam ambling up behind Cas; a basket of laundry and a level of smarm one has to be a sibling to truly accomplish.

“Aw c’mon Cas I don’t wanna sing--!” At that Castiel takes one bone-chilling step toward Dean. 

“Yes, actually you do.”

The slightest tilt of his head and that gaze that lasers right down into Dean’s deepest belly… _and yes parts lower because his cock is a moron as has been well established_

The single bead of sweat sits just above his lip, shimmering the tiniest bit as he does his damndest to keep the stammer out of his voice; he can do this, that bullshit tripe was allover the radio back in the day what the HELL was that One Song--

**_“Um…tell me is it gonna be ok_ **

**_If everybody came here today_ **

**_See I got no rope for climbin’_ **

**_Anyway they said it’s go-o-nna snow…”_ **

Castiel has a reasonable grasp of pop culture but this? This eludes him. And so he turns a raised brow to Sam.

Sam, who could have stifled his snort. And with a nod of his head could save his older brother a world of upcoming torment.

Sam, who's face is currently buried in a pile of clean shirts to stifle the sniggering he honestly can't help. Who pulls himself together long enough to shake his head “NOPE”, sending his Divine friend into action. And takes his basket off to the War Room to use the table for folding. He neither needs nor wants to witness whatever happens next, his work here is done.

Meanwhile, Dean knows damn well he’s not getting out of this but he can’t help glancing past Cas at the open door. At this point he just wants to GO; to get out a map and lay his finger anywhere down. Anything but whatever his Irked Angel

( _Irked Angel, Irked Angel_

_Will you bee mi-i-ne…_

Oh yeah, he’s definitely on Sleep-Dep and squirrely, wow)

has in store for him. He knows he’s earned it and that makes things even more dire.

Cas lifts not a finger as the door slowly closes, creaking just enough to unsettle the already unsettled being before him. He takes his eyes from said miscreant just long enough to search for—ah yes, there it is!

He crosses to Sam’s dresser. Picks up the hairbrush conveniently, almost evilly, left there. Turns it over in his hand, as if inspecting it for…Dean has no idea but it’s alarming as fuck…Cas lifts his eyes back to Dean with a calm, thoughtful expression:

“Sam once informed me, in conversation, that this is called a “paddle" brush. Rather fitting, wouldn’t you say?”

Why that’s what rattles him enough to attempt flight, Dean will never be able to say. The break he makes for the door is doomed from the start but dammit he has to try--!

He’s so very easily caught. So simply turned over. That he’s used to, that he can tolerate.

The intolerable, the mortifying and just fucking horrid, is when he’s told to

“Please reach for the iPad at the top of the bed. Find the lyrics of that song and sing the proper words for me while I attend to this naughty backside, if you will."

NUH-UH. That, that’s just…

“Cas c’mon, I know I have a blistering comin’ but I don’ wanna _AAHHHOKOKOK GEEZUS OWTCH_

A large, square-backed wooden brush is a vile thing indeed when applied to one’s already toasted posterior. Acts originally thought out of the question become far more acceptable.

And If one is anywhere near that corner of their chosen home, it’s no mean feat to keep a straight face when

**_"TELL ME OWTCH CAS D’YOU THINK IT WOULD BEEEAAHHALRIGHTOWWW_ **

**_IF I-I-OWW CAS DAMMIT COULD J-JUS’ CRASH HERE TONIGHYI-YITE OWOWOW_ **

**_YOU SEEEEEAAAHHHMMM NOT SAFE FOR DRIVIN-OWOOHOWOW_ **

**_AND ANYWAAAYYOWTCH I’VE GOT NOOOOOWOW PLACE TO GOOO OWWTCH CAS PLEAASEE--!!!!"_ **

comes warbling down the hallway. The corner of his mind not focused on his absurd situation knows the Jolly Green Jackass out there folding his stupid lumberjack laundry must be laughing his oversized ass off.

He’s not wrong. Not even a little. This absolutely and unequivocally sucks. And he can’t even plot further revenge, because this, this is all on him.

Sonuvabitch. He hates being responsible for his own predicaments; there’s no one to smack.

Perhaps it’s because Dean seems ready to behave. Or maybe the angel is accustomed to more dulcet tones and simply cannot take anymore Winchester Spank-aoke.  Whatever the reason, he sets down the hairbrush and lays a hand on the crimson cheeks, feeling the heat and luxuriating in the weight of his chastened lover across his knee. Dean, collapsed and properly submissive (no other word for it, fuck), rests his head on the softness of Sam's blanket and waits, rather politely, for further instruction.

"I won't tell you again, young man. Go and get into your bed and sleep. I have work to do but I’ll join you in a few hours, I promise. You may read for a time but I would have you asleep within the hour. I can tell you that in your place I would take the opportunity to rest, that extra bit of energy may be needed later on.”

A single finger runs from the top of Dean's spine to the small of his back and just over the split of his ass; the shiver, his cock immediately brought to attention...maybe it's finally time to be a Good Boy. 

A kiss, searing all the way to his toes on the bare floor, and he’s sent on his way. One last swat to his tender ass that he barely notices. Ok fine, he notices because fuckin’ OWTCH, but he doesn’t care; he’s damn-near throbbing with _want_ and _need_ and equally lusty words and he’s nearly as tired as he is horny; a nap before future shenanigans is fine with him. Even if he does still want to cause his brother some form of mild but hilarious harm. There’ll be time for justice later, right now—

 

\--right now he's been in bed for half an hour and Still. Can’t. Fucking. Sleep.

And he figures out that his phone is still in main room. Ugh.

Cas couldn’t have meant for him to be without his phone, right? He _said_ Dean could read, and if what Dean wants to read is on his Kindle and his Kindle is on his phone…?

And Cas is deep into whatever he’s deciphering, yeah he low-key monitors the whole place but he won’t notice or even care if—he can’t get mad if Dean just—

 

He’s truly amazed when he makes it all the way to the main room without being Furious Angel-ed. If he makes it there and back still in possession of his ass it’ll be more of a miracle than anything he’s accomplished for humanity.

Dean Winchester. Feared by every type of monster known and quite a few that are mostly unknown. Survivor of Heaven, Hell, and even muthafuckin’ Purgatory.

Sneaking around barefoot in his own home. Trying to avoid a spanking. Not demons or Harpies or Dragons. A spanking. From his own personal Guardian Angel. Because life makes so much freakin’ sense.

No Cas; he must be in the library, which figures actually....

Ah-ha, on the table! By that book that now makes his ass clench just looking at it. Phooey. He'll throw it in next time they salt and burn something.   

Success success he's got it awesome now to go straight the hell back and--

\--and the kitchen is right there and he just wants a cookie there's a whole box in there just two seconds more nothing's gonna go wrong--!

The kitchen. Snagging the whole box to take with him. Still no one else in sight, he's made it ‘cause he’s Maguyver and he’s Batman he's _awesome_ and--

“Hey Dean tomorrow do y—“ _FUCK SHIT FUCKIN SAM AUUGH_

Really now, he’s Dean Fucking Winchester. He’s entirely too well trained, too used to fighting damn near everything and being on his guard nearly 24/7, to honestly startle.

The problem is when someone knows you as well as you know yourself. And they know when you’re trying very, very hard to look like nothing’s wrong.

In retrospect, It’ll be the shit-eating, Essence-of-Grinch grin that spreads like pure high octane *evil* over Sam’s face that’s going to make Dean want to end his ratbastard little brother’s existence. Slowly and with agonizing detail.

_Bitch don’t do it_

**“WHASAMATTER DUDE I WAS JUST ASKING ABOUT TOMORROW…!!!”**

_Oh my god_

"For fuck’s sake Sam SSSHHHH” Dean's pretty sure this exact scenario played out no less than five times growing up, it bites every frickin' time. 

Sam reaches leisurely into a jar on the counter; grabs a handful of Sour Patch Kids, one of his few sugar indulgences, and shoves them into his face with a noxious gleam that may only exist in the eyes of the Krampus and younger siblings when they know you’re in trouble. Fuck. 

Throwing his misbegotten giant little brother a glare that would seriously melt a White Walker, Dean makes an admirable if futile effort to flee (yes actual fleeing goddammit) before—

“Yes Sam, by all means not so loud. Someone _should_ be trying to sleep.”

 

“Aw c’mon I just wanted—Cas I swear all I wanted was to get my phone and I was gonna go right back I--” 

 “Quiet.”

“But seriously--!!!”

 _“I. Said._ _Quiet_.”

Dean quiets. He hasn’t been dismissed so he stands there, his gaze split between the floor and Cas and the brother he’s going to choke.

“Sam?” Cas turns his attention on the taller brother, who’s still working on a mouthful of candies.

“Umf?” Chewing. Smug, sour fruity chewing. UGH. 

“I believe that there comes a time when even the most relentless of younger siblings becomes weary of…what’s the word? Oh yes. Tattling."

Sam has the decency to blush a bit. Shuffles his Saint Bernard feet and for once today looks a little guilty.

“Please stop by a hamburger restaurant of some kind and purchase dinner for your brother before you contact me to bring you back. Have a pleasant evening.”

“Buh wha—NUH DUN’T CAAFFF!!!”

And he’s gone. Dean will never, ever, get used to that.

He’s gotta ask.

“Where is he this time?”

“At a movie theater in Wamego. I saw an advertisement when we drove by earlier this week. They’re showing a series of films by a director whom I know Sam enjoys called Wes Anderson, and they even serve full meals and alcohol; he’ll be fine.” Dean spares a few fleeting thoughts for this; once he gets his bearings and realizes exactly where he is the behemoth little bitch’ll actually enjoy himself. Huh. Better’n he deserves…

Not that it even almost matters right now. There are far more pressing matters to—

“—Dean?”  Blinking a bit, he focuses back on Cas.

At the absolutely terrifying, smirking Creature that is currently his Castiel.

 “You should run.”

The blazing twin sapphires burning into him both chill his bones and fire the deepest lair in his belly. That sound he makes as he fucking *scampers* off?

Inarguably and most definitely a squeak.

 

One might say that attempting to escape an angel is pure folly. Utterly ridiculous, there’s simply no point; if he wants you, he’ll have you and the best you can hope for is a bit of benevolence on his part. So why run?

Primarily because he told you to. Simple obedience to Celestial Beings known to whoop your ass has its benefits. But also…also…

Because of the white-hot glint in his wintry eyes that promises--well it promises _suffering._ There’s no way around that truth.

The question is will be _sweet_ suffering, or something much, much harder to endure. Just as sweet, if Dean’s being honest, but far more devastating.

 And lord knows his angel is remarkably skilled at both.

He careens his way to his room and he swears Cas is right behind him the entire way; even that Scent of Castiel ( _new snow fresh cut grass plain_ _friggin’ sunshine_ ) swirls around him like the world’s only dangerous security blanket…and of course when he dares to peer down the hall as he opens his door there’s no one there.

What does surprise him is when he looks toward his bed and there’s no smirking angel. Huh.

What doesn’t surprise him, or shouldn’t have anyway, is when he closes the door AND THERE’S A FUCKING HEART ATTACK BEHIND IT--

**“Boo.”**

He’s dealt with any monster you can imagine and worse. He’s got nerves like the goddamn Batman and he’s nearly impossible to rattle. Therefore no attention needs paid to the SHRIEK he may or may not emit as he’s bum’s rushed and basically thrown onto the bed, stripped naked and held down on his belly by a dress-shirted menace with a *wrong* sense of humor.

“No you did NOT say fucking “BOO” Cas that ain’t right--!!” _Outrage yeah let’s go with that get him talking and maybe stall whatever terrible he’s got in store…_

It doesn’t work. It has never worked. Why he continues to try, he does not know. Ever the optimist. Which may be another word for “idiot”.

Those smooth lips murmur and buzz along the shell of his ear:

“What is your color, Brat?”

Now see, this is the crossroads. While Cas does make the final decisions (they both thrive when they live that way), their direction does depend heavily on Dean’s next words.

“Red, Sir” will tell his angel that he needs rest and tenderness more than further discipline and/or mayhem. It won’t necessarily get him out of a warmer posterior, but only warm enough to send him even into even deeper sleep. Which it would, they both know it.

“Green, Sir” and Castiel, with a look of loving wickedness, would proceed with a thorough thrashing followed by a soul-calming orgasm that knocked his Profoundly Bonded One out long enough that he’d likely stay down ‘til well after dinner time. A fine possibility.

But—well--

It’s one of the more frustrating aspects of being who he is. Sometimes Dean wants, needs, to be treated a Certain Way. Not punished, not exactly…that’s different. No, this is when he needs something, _Someone,_ to push against. To let him fight with all he has, and that’s considerable, knowing full well he’s gonna lose. Epically. And pay for that loss with tears and a bit of his sanity, and whatever dignity he still has.

And so with a feigned yawn (!) that belies the exhilarated pounding of his heart, he utters That Which Must Not Be Uttered. The color meant to imply boredom, to show how very unimpressed he is...It drips with surly, feisty defiance and gives his Castiel full reign to

Take.

 Him.

Apart.

To ignore all begging and enjoy every moment of it.

The color of WOE. SO MUCH WOE--

“Beige.”

Oh. Oh my. The oceans boil and the sky is falling and nothing can save him now.

Castiel stills for the slightest second. Just long enough for Dean to fleetingly wonder if it’s too late to turn back, to apologize and change his color and drive down Treasured Boy Street instead of this Boulevard of Broken Deans…

The pitch-black chuckle from above says in no uncertain terms that his self-chosen fate is one hundred percent sealed. He expected no less…

And that’s his last truly Coherent Thought for an appallingly long time.

 

Lying in the darkness, quivering. Recalling how to breathe without begging. Realizing, slowly, that stillness is safe again; he doesn’t have to constantly roll and writhe and try try try to protect his ribs his sides his poor tender belly, his flaming, incendiary ass and what’s left of what he used to call thighs. Both front and back, so marked and mistreated and oh so _sore_

He’s purring. That’s the only way to describe the vibrating hum of sated contentment. Cas loves him this way, lying half on top of his—Dean would call him something like “Loving Destroyer” right now. And it would be fitting.

The last few hours were…busy, shall we say. They’re both grateful that the bed is so solidly built, else they would surely have broken it to bits. Because Dean needed broken to bits. And put back together, piece by piece, as his angel was seeing to right now.

What Castiel knows, and Dean absolutely can  _not_  admit out loud but needs, desperately needs Cas to understand, is that Cas is the only one who’s ever been strong enough to give him what he’s craving. With the life they led, even his father didn’t have time or inclination to give...to make him feel…ugh, he’s always been the Elder Son, the Protector. Second, and then First, in Command. Fearless Leader, who watches over his baby brother and everyone he loves as best he can. He carries that on his shoulders proudly, considers it an honor.

But when it finally, finally gets to be too much, when the burden is too heavy and he’s tired and his bones ache and his spirit is just—raw and ragged—

With his angel he can Let Go. And he does. With a vengeance.

He vaguely remembers the darkness of the room, knowing that the angel can see much, much better than he can.

The menacing, silky buzz of Cas’ voice against his already slick nape:

“ _Beige_ , is it? You know that isn’t a true *color*, little one. Thank you though, since that means I get to play with my favorite toy as I please until a proper color is selected. I’m sure you’ll let me know when that time is upon us.”

He swallows a stray whimper, knowing that basically *anything* can happen from now until, well…

Until he breaks. 

Dean's arms are drawn up and over his head, his wrists gathered into one strong hand. The sweetest, nearly chaste kiss against his cheek. 

And then all hell breaks loose. Later he'll ruefully recall being mildly ashamed of just how quickly he started screaming. 

"What's your color?" He's asked while deadly tickling fingers knead his sides and stroke his underarms, wringing window-rattling unholy sounds from him. Until Cas, no one's ever had both the strength and the desire to torment him this way; neither of them had any idea just how ticklish he was or that it was one of nature's most insane and exquisite forms of torture.

_Had Alistair known his body the way his angel does he'd have never lasted thirty years..._

Cas, who freely admits how much he loves reducing his stubborn, borderline-arrogant Bonded One to a puddle of bow-legged goo pleading for mercy, could easily hold him in one position the entire time, but where's the fun in that? And so he releases Dean's wrists (for now) and gives him the lovely illusion of hope, sadistic bastard that he is. Even with his eyes adjusted to the inky black of his room Dean has no sense of direction in his panicked state, throwing himself blindly away from his tormentor once he feels the edge of the bed. 

WRONG. FUCKING. MOVE.

He doesn't know how long he's upside down. Time and space lose all meaning while Cas puts his weight on Dean's legs, the poor hunter's upper body flailing halfway to the floor and his vulnerable hips and belly completely exposed to the Winged Barbarian who takes FULL advantage. Few words are intelligible, "DEMON" and "ASSHOLE" and "FUCKING PLEASE" being chief among them; they do nothing to lessen the assault. Because Dean is deliciously lost in what seems like a bottomless sea of laughter. That's something his angel doesn't get to hear as often as he'd like, as often as he should, in his opinion. When he has such an opportunity he revels in the unbound joy of his beloved.

Also he's a sadistic thug, and tickling his human nearly out of his mind is **fun** plain and simple. This much power over him without actually harming him, with nary even any true marks? One of God's better notions indeed. 

He changes up, periodically. Dean feels himself flying through the dark from one side of wherever he was (at this point he really has no idea and it doesn't even matter anymore) to another; the firmness under him means he's over Cas' lap again--

"What"

**SMACK**

"Is"

**WHAP**

"Your"

**SMAP**

Color?" 

"B-OWTCH-BEI-BEIGE YOU GODDAMNED FLYING-AAOWW!!!!" His already ruined ass has to be purple by now, he's lost count how many times he's been tossed over the knee or just held down and smacked but he'll be damned if he gives in before--

Before what? before he's ready. That's all he knows and nothing's gonna break him before he's ready to be broken. Or something. Shut up. 

A pause. Thank fuck. Not that it means anything good, but at least he can breathe for a moment. 

He's back on his belly, the blanket a shadow of its former self. Cas apparently facing away from him, leaning across his lower back facing his rear and legs. Drumming his fingers on Dean's ass as if lost in deep, alarming contemplation:

He's thinking. That ain't never good. Well it _is,_ In the long run. Just not in Dean's immediate future. 

"You're right, I do fly on occasion. Certainly not as much as I once did, but I'm still quite capable. I have wings, as you know." 

Dean lies perfectly still, other than heaving in air. He has no idea where this is going but it feels like Doom. Doom and WOE...

"...tell me, what do my wings consist of?" 

Oh. Oh no, _GEEZUS_...he actually tries to loose himself from beneath the angel; moves not a centimeter and gets a sharp SMACK to his left thigh for his trouble. 

"Why yes, they're made of these!" And with that comes the beginning of the end. 

Not from the relentless, pride-shattering tickllng he's been tortured with so far.

Not from the relentless spanking, leaving his backside and thighs so swollen and sore he'll walk twice as bandy-kneed as usual for days. 

No...our hero will be brought to his breaking point with the help of a single, jet black angel's feather. Produced seemingly out of thin air.

Oh, and eleven orgasms. They usher the evening along rather nicely. 

 

"Let's try this again. What's your color...?"

Drenched in sweat, still too stubborn to give in. Shuddering from coming--was it nine times, Cas said? All Dean knows is that--hell he doesn't even know what he knows anymore--!

" _Bei-Bei-fuck noo Caasss noooo...!!!!"_ He gives in to the the gibbering, wheezy giggles. And yes they are fucking giggles, no other word for what's being wrung from his exhausted self. 

He hears the angel give a "tsk" of (phony baloney DAMN HIM) regret as the feather, long and stiff but just soft enough, descends for the umpteenth time. It sworls and dusts and circles all along the now-gaping, greedy opening nestled between Dean's poor abused asscheeks. Castiel's tickled and stroked and teased the poor, helplessly spasming hole, and the cock, balls, and surrounding area, over and over while Dean's gone from wailing and coming to keening and coming to now just...coming. And giggling, because it STILL FUCKING TICKLES and his mind is currently yogurt. Again and again, on his back with his legs held up over Cas' shoulders or on his belly with his thighs spread in such humiliatingly wanton way.

He tried, at first, not to give in.

Not to come, no matter how many times that goddamned feather twirled around his poor wriggling balls or slid back and forth across the slit of the very tip of his quaking cock, a place he had NO IDEA could make him fucking HOWL laughing and come so close to giving up AND make him spend so hard he's pretty sure his skin is lighter now. And this mean sumbitch he was stupid enough to fall in love with just keeps laying Holy Hands on him, flowing oxygen all through him and restoring him just enough that he can come. All. Over. Again. in minutes. Minutes spent beating his ass and tickling his ribs and his fucking feet (RAT. BASTARD) and jerking him off in an expert way only a being who once put him back together can do. But not to completion, oh no. No, only until he's nice and iron-hard AGAIN. Just in time to have his twitching, extremely fucking confused cock feathered again while he squalls and curses his angel and continues refusing to break and he's beyond tired and wants NEEDS to win and then be fucked into oblivion and sleep for five years...

He jumps when his phone rings out of the dark. "Smoke on the Water."

  _Sam Sam he wants to come home it's Sam_  

"It's Sam," come the bleary-eyed croak, "You gotta let me go and bring him home Cas--!" _And I win you didn't break me I win HAHAHAHAHA_

...yeah. About that.

It's both a blessing and a curse when your lover knows you better than you know yourself. Castiel, keeping one hand firmly on his beautiful victim, answers the call.

"Hello Sam. Yes. Stay where you are and I'll bring you home."

_I did it I did it fucking YAY I did it he--_

"Certainly. In about ten minutes." 

_Wait whut_

He hears Cas end the call and toss the phone back wherever it was. Feels a tender kiss to his salted brow, warm but without an ounce of pity...

"Silly boy. Were you under the impression that Sam's desire to return home meant you were free? I think not."

And the world that was nothing but darkness and desperation explodes with undiscovered colors and agonizing joy as his angel is suddenly back between his shaking thighs to devour him whole. Cas draws Dean's perpetually pulsing cock in as deeply as he can, fully throating the begging thickness and only the sheer unearthly weight of his tormentor keeps Dean from flying off into places unknown; bucking and writhing and shimmering with sensation as Cas swallows over and over and over while his tongue dear GOD his tongue,,,his fingers find those annihilatingly ticklish junctions just under Dean's poor clenching ass and pulse knead squeeze skitter as he arches as much as his captor will allow, the screamlaugh wrenching from him loud and oh so desperate. Cas takes in every ounce of his boy’s eleventh release, sucking and licking until he’s certain of two things: that there isn’t a single drop left. And that his precious toy cannot take another flick of the tongue nor strum of his ribs without truly losing his deliriously fragile mind.

Perfect.

With each orgasm Dean's become more and more hyperticklish, more sensitive to the lightest touch and o fucking NO Cas can't be reaching for that fucking feather he's--not there not again OH PLEASE

Cas snickers as he feels the sheer panic tear through his boy; that _place,_ just beneath Dean's balls where he can barely handle being touched under normal circumstances; the quill end of his angel's feather scritching and tickling that delicious little spot has already siphoned ropes of come from him while his agonized bawling laughter rang through the room. _He can't he can't somebody help him he CAN'T_

“GREEN FUCKIN’ GREEN HNNNNGGG CAS PLEASE GOD--!!!” Castiel simply smiles, rather sweetly Dean would say if he could see. 

“With respect to my Father, this,” he growls, pure evil as he tickles that spot for a bit while licking a wide stripe up the underside of the desperately quivering cock, “is your only God tonight.”

Dean moans through his low, powerless laughter, too exhausted to fight; his thigh muscles too strained to fight, he simply gives in and lets the lovely agony wash over him. Whatever his angel wants. He's broken.

And happy to be so. The Wretched Beast inside him has been tamed. For now anyway...

And that's when Cas knows, truly knows, that he's given his Beloved just what he needed. Now he can find peace in slumber. Well into tomorrow. 

Tenderly he turns his boy over, unzipping himself and freeing his own too-long denied cock. Control he has, but he wants his boy. NOW.

A pop of a bottle top and a lube-slickened finger or two before he's easing his way in, rocking until he's there to the hilt and he feels Dean wearily yet hungrily push back against him. He nips the nearest bare shoulder, a gentle reminder of his place.

"You'll take what I give you, young man. Fortunately for you, I plan to give it all."

And he does, pumping as he squeezes and lovingly pays tribute to the cherry-red ass and thighs that surround him; Dean sobs his pleasure, his close-to-boneless being sinking into the warmth and his final release is a glorious thing indeed. It also knocks him out for the count. As it should. 

 

Cas finds the edge of the sheet. with that and a bit of mojo he gently mops away the mixture of sweat tears and sex glistening on his boy and O Heaven, the scent of said elixir slithers straight to his loins and honestly makes him want to start all over again.

Of course he won’t, truth be told his sadism is lower-cased;his human needs rest.

And there’s always the morning.

 

Floating. The world just floats and he doesn’t want to open his eyes. The colors behind his lids are still alive, fireworks fading in the summer night sky. He feels himself gathered into the arms of his angel and he’s content, he’s warm. He’s loved.

He's vaguely aware that there's wonderfully unhealthy fast food on the table by his bed. Sam. Maybe he won't dispatch him just yet. But he's just too tired right now...

 

Cas is sitting up in bed, reading that book (ick) by the light of a single candle. Dean's head is actually on his lap with Cas' stroking his hair. 

“Thank you.”

The quiet words, barely above a whisper, are met with a gentle tug at the top of his head.

"Anytime, Baby. Just say the word."

_Oh you rotten sonuva--_

His last words before he curls into his lover and drifts away again, may have been "fuck you." He'll deny it when he wakes, a full ten hours from now,  

 

But that's a Tale of Woe for another day.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to Kreweofimp for letting me play in her sandbox, I love you and I just hope I did your boys justice :) 
> 
> Comments welcomed and encouraged! 
> 
> That Gin Blossoms song, for the younglings: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ah5gAkna3jI


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